Sir Simon rode off on his quest,

The quest for the Holy Snail;

He took his lance and sword in hand,

And wore his best chain-mail.


He searched the land for the famous beast,

On hills and in the vale,

Looking everywhere he could,

For the Holy Snail.


And long and hard he fought his quest,

To win this sacred prize,

Until he saw a silver trail,

Before his very eyes.


He followed the shimmering, silver path,

Through the forest deep,

Until he began to feel most tired,

And lay down and went to sleep.


He woke up in the midst of night,

Not a single creature stirred;

He stood up in the cold night air,

And then a noise he heard.


And there it was, the Holy Snail,

Shining purest gold,

This fantastic, sacred beast,

Described in legends old.


He crept towards the little snail,

Sitting on the ground;

In one swift move, he picked it up,

The snail had been found.


So home he rode to Camelot,

A glimmer in his eyes;

He had caught the Holy Snail;

He had won the sacred prize.


And as he rode home through the north,

All the peasants cheered,

And he began to feel most proud,

As Manchester he neared.


He felt this pride and joy as he

Rode through the park at Heaton,

But a sparrow dived, then snatched and swallowed;

The snail had been eaten.

Poetry and Prose Archives

Joe C

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